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Introduction

Sacred and Profane, Op 91, a collection of eight medieval lyrics for voices in five parts (SSATB), was written in the winter of 1974/75 for Peter Pears’s Wilbye Consort, who gave the first performance of the songs at Snape Maltings on 14 September 1975 (and subsequently recorded them in the following year, less than two months before Britten died). Sacred and Profane proved to be the last choral work for professionals which Britten was to complete, although he went on to compose the Welcome Ode for amateurs in 1976 and left the score of a Sitwell setting for choir and orchestra (Praise we great men) unfinished on his death. The medieval lyrics were conceived as a virtuoso display piece for the five solo voices which made up the Wilbye group, but Sacred and Profane has since occasionally been performed by full choirs in spite of the extraordinary vocal dexterity and suppleness required to bring off this highly demanding work in performance: the harmonic sophistication of Britten’s late style requires an impeccable sense of relative pitch difficult even for soloists to achieve, and almost impossible for any but the best choirs.

It would be misleading to regard Sacred and Profane as a song-cycle in the conventional sense since, although there are sporadic musical connections between the eight individual songs, the set does not display unified subject-matter. The composer’s main concern was to create a juxtaposition of secular and sacred typical of the medieval period. Britten chose not to modernize his texts, some of which date from as early as the twelfth century, so a summary of their content may prove helpful. The work begins with St Godric’s simple Hymn to the Virgin Mary, then briefly bewails man’s habitual insanity as a characteristic making him unique in the animal kingdom (‘I mon waxe wod’). ‘Lenten is come’ provides a detailed description of the sights and sounds of emerging springtime, but is immediately followed by a cold windy night signifying the drawing in of winter (‘The long night’). The fifth song, ‘Yif ic of luve can’, presents the intense feelings of love and sorrow inspired by a contemplation of Christ on the Cross. The mood switches abruptly to one of irreverent parody in the ensuing ‘Carol’, where a pastoral scene of a maiden lying on a moor is related in deliberately banal harmonic and rhythmic patterns. In ‘Ye that pasen by’, Christ makes an entreaty to passers-by to behold him on the Cross; and the set concludes with ‘A death’, in which a catalogue of the breakdown of bodily functions at the moment of death leads to a surprisingly dismissive conclusion (‘Of al this world ne give I it a pese!’).

Recordings

'The programme is delightful and the choir excellent … this has to be one of the strongest winners of the choral award in recent years' (Gramophone)'Polyphony's brand of singing, clean as a whistle, rhythmically wonderfully alive, impeccably tuned and voiced, polished yet always fervent, is justly ...» More

Lenten is come with love to toune, With blosmen and with briddes roune, That all this blisse bringeth. Dayeseyes in this dales, Notes swete of nightegales, Uch fowl song singeth. The threstelcok him threteth oo. Away is huere winter wo When woderofe springeth. This fowles singeth ferly fele, And wliteth on huere wynne wele, That all the wode ringeth.

The rose raileth hire rode, The leves on the lighte wode Waxen all with wille. The mone mandeth hire ble, The lilye is lossom to se, The fennel and the fille. Wowes this wilde drakes, Miles murgeth huere makes, Ase strem that striketh stille. Mody meneth, so doth mo; Ichot ich am on of tho For love that likes ille.

Spring has come with love among us, With flowers and with the song of birds, That brings all this happiness. Daisies in these valleys, The sweet notes of nightingales, Each bird sings a song. The thrush wrangles all the time. Gone is their winter woe When the woodruff springs. These birds sing, wonderfully merry, And warble in their abounding joy, So that all the wood rings.

The rose puts on her rosy face, The leaves in the bright wood All grow with pleasure. The moon sends out her radiance, The lily is lovely to see, The fennel and the wild thyme. These wild drakes make love, Animals cheer their mates, Like a stream that flows softly. The passionate man complains, as do more; I know that I am one of those That is unhappy for love.

The moon sends out her light, So does the fair, bright sun, When birds sing gloriously. Dews wet the downs, Animals with their secret cries For telling their tales. Worms make love under ground, Women grow exceedingly proud, So well it will suit them. If I don’t have what I want of one, All this happiness I will abandon, And quickly in the woods be a fugitive.

Mirie it is, while sumer ilast, With fugheles song. Oc nu necheth windes blast, And weder strong. Ey! ey! what this night is long! And ich, with well michel wrong, Soregh and murne and fast.

Pleasant it is, while summer lasts, With the birds’ song. But now the blast of the wind draws nigh, And severe weather. Alas! how long this night is! And I, with very great wrong, Sorrow and mourn and fast.

Whanne ic se on Rode Jesu, my lemman, And besiden him stonden Marye and Johan, And his rig iswongen, And his side istungen, For the luve of man; Well ou ic to wepen, And sinnes for to leten, Yif ic of luve can, Yif ic of luve can, Yif ic of luve can.

When I see on the Cross Jesu, my lover, And beside him stand Mary and John, And his back scourged, And his side pierced, For the love of man, Well ought I to weep And sins to abandon, If I know of love, If I know of love, If I know of love.

Ye that pasen by the weiye, Abidet a little stounde. Beholdet, all my felawes, Yef any me lik is founde. To the Tre with nailes thre Wol fast I hange bounde; With a spere all thoru my side To mine herte is mad a wounde.

You that pass by the way, Stay a little while. Behold, all my fellows, If any like me is found. To the Tree with three nails Most fast I hang bound; With a spear all through my side To my heart is made a wound.

Thanne I schel flutte From bedde to flore, From flore to here, From here to bere, From bere to putte, And te putt fordut. Thanne lyd mine hus uppe mine nose. Of al this world ne give I it a pese!

When my eyes get misty, And my ears are full of hissing, And my nose gets cold, And my tongue folds, And my face goes slack, And my lips blacken, And my mouth grins, And my spittle runs, And my hair rises, And my heart trembles, And my hands shake, And my feet stiffen— All too late! all too late! When the bier is at the gate.

Then I shall pass From bed to floor, From floor to shroud, From shroud to bier, From bier to grave, And the grave will be closed up. Then rests my house upon my nose. For the whole world I don’t care one jot!